


Crooked Teeth

by ToastCrunch



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Intoxication, No Sex, Will Graham Has Encephalitis, basically canon compliant, but with some extra katz and dogs interaction, for the sake of the ship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7316038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToastCrunch/pseuds/ToastCrunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story in vignettes, told in first person. All of a sudden, Will never wants the evening to end when she's around. Even more suddenly, he doesn't want to face reality once she's gone, but presses on knowing that he desperately needs to. Vengeance isn't nearly as sweet as love, a quiet love found in frustration, found in respect, found at the bottom of a drink and with the last of the aspirin. But mostly, they found love in the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crooked Teeth

Beverly is reminding me to breathe, and I have a knitted blanket wrapped around my shoulders. Despite the fact that I’m freezing, I’m soaked in sweat, although at least that’s congruent with my level of fatigue. I feel as if I’ve been running up a rocky path in winter, ascending a craggy, frosted hill. Dressed too lightly for the harsh weather. If I need to compare my physical state to a scenario to cope with it, at least I’ve got solace in the fact of having found one that’s… accurate, sort of. File it away for the future, next time I’m huddled someplace, at the mercy of a caretaker or lack thereof. Some of the dogs are crowded around my feet, worried about the state of their own caretaker. Maybe out of an animalistic self-interest, but I’m willing to believe that they’d miss me, if I were gone. A few are snuffling around the kitchen, a few others around the shoes by the front door, trying to take advantage of my inability to get up and stop them. I suppose I can’t blame them, and I can always ask Beverly to intervene if they get out of hand.

Beverly is better than no one, better than crying hunched over in my bed, waiting for the night to pass. It’s possible I could’ve collected myself more than that, but it’s not the kind of thing I’d count on. And as far as people go, rather than absences, Beverly is also clearly head and shoulders above some of the other possibilities. There’s no pity in her voice, which is emptied of every reaction I’m accustomed to, leaving her tone somewhere between the professionalism of a paramedic and the wry rapport of an old friend. Beverly is not what I’d refer to as an old friend, but here she is. For some reason, the functioning part of my brain wanted her assistance. 

“But slowly, Will. I’m no doctor, but I know that hyperventilating isn’t ideal. I used to have panic attacks as a kid, I was pretty stressed. Even if I’m not sure what’s going on with you, I can guess that worse stress equals a worse reaction,” she says. The last thing I want to believe is that this is caused by stress, specifically the stress of my line of work. And yet, that seems to be the theory du jour. 

“Seizures and, um, panic attacks are not what I’d call… equivalent,” I say. Beverly shrugs and raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t appear to stand corrected

“Maybe so, but if you don’t appreciate my theorizing, I could settle for you appreciating my help,” she replies. I wasn’t aware that I seemed ungrateful, but Beverly did drive here in the rain on the basis of a frenzied phone call, and I do have a long history of poor communication. I’m having difficulty separating the imagery of “hospital employee” from that of “trusted friend”, but even if she considers herself to only be doing a job, she deserves thanks for doing it well.

“Thank you, then,” I say.

“You’re welcome, that was all I needed to hear,” says Beverly. I chuckle. There’s something genuinely comforting about her asking me, imploring me even, to thank her. It shows that she didn’t do this out of any misguided notion that she owes me something. Beverly asked me whether I was unstable when we began investigating the Shrike. She didn’t seem concerned about me, or even about what I might do to someone else. She almost seemed impressed.

“Tea?” asks Beverly. 

“I don’t have any in the house,” I answer. Beverly smirks, and bends at the waist to rummage through her purse. She doesn’t look dressed up, exactly, but I notice that she doesn’t have a hair out of place. No panic, all action. 

“You came equipped?” I say.

“Exactly,” says Beverly. 

“What kind?”

“Throat coat.” She pulls out a small, yellow-and-violet cardboard box, printed with a sad giraffe in pajamas. It seems profoundly unlike her, the assertive, together woman I was observing just a moment ago. Of course, it’s ridiculous to expect that people be in character all the time. You can tell the most about them when they aren’t, really.

“So,” I say, “do you buy this particular tea out of childhood nostalgia, or out of a desire for the childhood you wish you’d had?”

“Just let me make the tea, Graham, you’re off duty,” Beverly says. 

“Sorry, actually. I should know better than anyone that you might not care for casual psychoanalysis,” I say. Asking her about her childhood. Shows how much I know about polite conversation, something I never knew innately, and certainly didn’t pick up in my own youth.

“Damn straight,” she responds, pointedly turning her back and walking into the other room. But I caught a glimpse of her face, when she thought I couldn’t see it. She was, perhaps still is, smiling. I wait for her quietly, not ready or willing to stir myself enough to call to her in the other room. When Beverly returns to set a steaming mug on the floor in front of me, I still do not relax my shoulders. I don’t know where this odd anxiety came from, why it came, or least of all when it will leave. I pick up my tea, and dip my finger in to test the temperature.

“It’s hot, obviously,” she says.

“Obviously,” I reply. I place my hand back on the chipped, grayish mug, relishing the warmth. I’m not icy any longer, but still a far cry from overheated.

“Not to be too direct, but are you going to be in at work on Monday? Do you think you should really go, when this is happening?” asks Beverly.

“I honestly prefer directness. As to your question, where else could you see me going?” I say. Beverly sighs, exasperated but already resigned.

“Of course that’s what you’d say, but you do need to take care of yourself, Will. Everyone is worried about you,” she says.

“Out of concern for my health, or theirs?” I ask.

“Since you prefer directness, I’d say it’s a little bit of both.”

I nod, and sip my scalding tea. I look up at Beverly, who is standing a small, yet careful distance away, and I understand that this interaction has been awkward for her, if nothing else. She betrays an intention of not getting too close, which makes me believe that either she’s attempting to maintain professional distance, or she’s hiding something. If she is, it’s for her sake, and not mine, and I can respect that. So far, I have no reason to believe she’s ill-intentioned, and I may as well trust her to the point that it helps me. That, and it’s nice to believe in the innocence of my friends. Beverly is… a friend. If she wasn’t, she would have simply called an ambulance after hearing my call.

“Now that I’ve calmed down, should you be leaving? I’m not intent on spoiling your weekend,” I say. 

“I don’t know, maybe. But it’s not like I have any plans for tomorrow, and I haven’t even finished my tea,” says Beverly.

“No,” I say, “you haven’t.” A soft glow permeates the room, like sitting in a sunbeam on a chilly spring day. From the angle I sit at, a thick blackness seems to surround the outside of my home. Floating in the void. Nothing here but where I am. It’s one of the most comforting thoughts I’ve had in a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> The chapter titles are lyrics from the song Crooked Teeth (the name provides my story's title, obviously), by Death Cab for Cutie. I wasn't seeing much (read: any) Katz and Dogs fic around, so I figured I would add my writing to that limited pantheon. I love Hannigram as much as the next person, but choice and variety are underrated when it comes to shipping. This fic was not beta read, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.


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